He was not a theatre-going youth. He had been brought up with an abhorrence for the stage and all its iniquities. So he devoted himself, heart and soul, to the saving of the misguided maiden, with astonishing results. They fell in love with each other and were married. He often smiled—and he smiled even now as he gazed pensively out into the night—when he recalled the alternative she proposed and continued to defend up to within a day or two of the wedding. She wanted him to give up the pulpit and go on the stage with her! She argued that he was so good-looking and had such a wonderful voice, that nothing—absolutely nothing!—could keep him from becoming one of the most popular “leading men” in the profession. She went so far as to declare that he would make a much better actor than a preacher anyhow—and, besides, the stage needed clean, upright young men quite as badly as the church needed them! And now she was down here in this desolate little town, loyally doing her best to be all that a country parson’s wife should be, working for him, loving him,—and, if the truth must be told—surreptitiously delighting him with frequent backslidings to Pat and Joe and Gus, including occasional terpsichorean extravagances that would have got her “churched” if any one else had witnessed them. He was always wondering what the people of Rumley thought of her. He knew, alas, what she thought of the people of Rumley. His heart swelled a little as he glanced over his shoulder and saw her patting the hand of the distracted Baxter. She was his Josephine, and she was a warm-hearted, beautiful creature who was bound to be misunderstood by these—He was conscious of a sudden, unchristian-like hardening of his jaws, and was instantly ashamed of the hot little spasm of resentment that caused it. The political adversaries were now shouting at each other with all the ridiculous intensity of mid-campaign lunatics, and there was a great deal of finger-shaking and pounding of clenched fists upon open palms. Young Mr. Sage cringed as he turned his face to the window again, and if he had given utterance to his feelings he would have petrified the arguers by roaring: “Oh, shut up, you jackasses!” He drew back with an exclamation. The light fell full upon a face close to the window pane, a face so startling and so vivid that it did not appear to be real. A pair of dark, gleaming eyes met his for a few seconds; then swiftly the face was withdrawn, retreating mysteriously into the shadowy wall beyond the circle of light. He leaned forward and peered intently. Two indistinct figures took shape in the unrelieved darkness at the corner of the porch—two women, he made out, huddled close together, their faces barely discernible through the swirling veil of snow.